Have I Ever Told You?
by Vintage Tea Party
Summary: I have thought a lot about what the last thing I would say to Sherlock would be. As I thought about it I could never seem to find the right words, words that would be enough for all he means to me. But now that I am here I find that these, my last words to him, are exactly the right ones.


Have I ever told you how lucky I am?

How is that you and I only found this out in the midst of the worst thing that ever would happen to us? I could never figure out why we never said the best words, the words that counted the most, before now. But now I see that that there was no other way to say them. They were meant for now. They were the only way to say goodbye.

* * *

"I'm ready," Sherlock says simply. He is sitting calmly in a chair by the window of his hospital room, his dressing gown on, the book he was reading closed and sitting in his lap. He looks calm and matter of fact like he usually does. You would never know what was going on by the looks of him. You wouldn't be able to see how sick he is or the amount of pain he is in.

I am startled by his words. I look up and meet his eyes. I don't need to ask. The dread that fills my stomach already tells me that I know what he means. But I ask anyway.

"Ready for what?"

"To go."

"Go where?"

"Home of course. To Baker Street"

I nod my head, trying to appear as calm as he does. How can he look like that? How can he hide the tumultuous emotions inside of him? He does feel them doesn't he? I am in shock, frozen in place, my body and mind stuck in this second. Unwilling to move forward because if I stay in this second I won't ever have to move forward and if I don't move forward I won't come closer, second by second, to the end.

"John," he calls me out of the place I was lost in my mind. I look at him and his face begs me not to so I won't. I must keep it in now and not lose it. He's not being cruel; he just can't handle it here.

I pack the few belongings that he brought slowly. It's alright because it takes him a long time to get ready to leave and he won't let me help with that anyway. I don't want to go home. It is the only time that I have ever felt dread in going to our home though I fear with the realization it most likely will not be the last. I don't want to stay here in the hospital but I know what going home means.

We're headed home, into our last battle. The only place that we could ever fight this battle.

When Sherlock first got sick he hid it from me. I wasn't surprised. I was furious, of course, at him for hiding it and for me not seeing it but not surprised. The day I found out was the worse day of my life. At least the worst so far. I will never be able to forget the image of Sherlock nearly passed out in the bathroom vomiting, when I found him.

He felt terrible for that being the way I found out but I didn't blame him. It wasn't the best way to find out and I know that I didn't handle it the best way but I understood why he didn't want to tell me. But ever since then he continued to pretend that he really wasn't that bad off. But the truth is he is bad off and there was never any question as to whether he would survive it or not. We both knew from the beginning he would not. By the time he realized what was happening (which was much sooner than I learned of it) it was already too late.

He wouldn't let me take care of him. He went to the hospital just so that I wouldn't have to do anything for him. I know that he loathed the fact that he had to accept the help even from strangers and that he never would have let me do those things for him. Maybe it was better that way. But I would have been willing to do whatever I had to for him. Either way, it didn't matter; he was the one who got to make the decision.

He didn't take even half of what they would have offered him for the pain. Stubborn git. But again, not a surprise. He said he didn't want to lose his mind even if he was losing his body. I found it hard to argue with him after that. As hard as it was for him to be losing his body to disease it would have been unbearable to lose his mind even if it were to drugs that could have made the suffering less. I knew how important it was to him because I would hear him moan in his sleep or flinch in pain when he thought I wasn't noticing and still he didn't ask for more medicine.

I don't hear anything the doctors or nurses say as we leave. I am numb as we make our way out of the hospital into a cab and head home. I don't hear or absorb anything else because nothing else matters. We are going home, where I will have to say goodbye to my best friend.

I feel like I'm bleeding on the inside, like my life's blood is gushing out of control inside of me. It started as a small trickle ever since the day I found out that he was sick and got worse and worse every time the news got worse and worse. Now that we're going home and I know what that means it feels uncontrollable, draining me of life.

I've only known Sherlock for five years. It's a long enough time that it's actually hard for me to imagine what my life was like before I knew him. Yet, it's a short enough time that I feel that I am being robbed of something that should be mine.

What kind of man was I before Sherlock came into my life and changed the course of it? It's hard to remember but I remember enough of it that I know that I don't want to return to it.

The cab arrives back at 221B and I pay the cabbie and move quickly to get out of the cab so that I can help Sherlock out. But when I get to his side he's already getting out even if he is struggling at it. I move to give him a hand but he waves me away. I inwardly sigh; I thought that things might different once we left the hospital but I'm not really surprised. It only frustrates because I know he needs help and I want to help him but he won't let me. Stubborn git.

I ask him if he wants to see Mrs. Hudson but he only shakes his head and says. "No. Just you."

I don't say anything. He must even be closer than I thought. I shouldn't be surprised by this. He wouldn't have come home when he thought he had any significant amount of time left, time in which he would have to rely on me for help. But it does surprise me. Even though I knew that he wasn't alright, he did such a good job of acting like he was I thought he had more time left. He is a grander actor than I even knew.

Somehow we manage the stairs. Silently and slowly we make our way up to the door of our own flat. When we open the door and walk in I'm hit the weight of the moment. I have no idea what to do. What am I supposed to do?

I'm relieved when Sherlock solves the dilemma for me. "Tea?" he asks simply.

"Sure," I say though it's strained. I make my way to the kitchen and he makes his way to the couch. I start the kettle and I grip the side of the sink as I wait on it until my knuckles turn white.

How can I possibly do this? How can I ever say goodbye to my best friend? How can I give away a man who has become my whole world? He feels like a vital part of my existence like I might actually not survive the loss of him.

I should be grateful for this and in a way I am. At least I get to say goodbye. There were so many times I was worried that he would go so suddenly that I would miss it and not be there with him, not be able to say all I wanted to him. I would barely sleep at all for fear that upon waking I would find him gone. I never went anywhere unless it was absolutely necessary and even then I worried the whole time until I returned and found him still with me. I am thankful that I will get to be with him. It's a very bitter thing to be thankful for.

I have never faced death like this. I have never faced it slow and painful. I've seen friends die but it was always quick and swift. And I have seen the slow progression of death bringing disease. But its always been detached in a professional capacity. Never someone I love with so much of my heart.

Where will I even begin? There are so many things, so many thoughts, so many emotions, that I have never told him that I feel there are too many words to express them all; the time is too limited. And yet at the same time I feel there are no words. Not enough or adequate enough to say goodbye. Why have I waited so long to say anything?

I feel like stealing a glance to see what he is doing but I keep myself from it. I don't know if he is going to keep up this pretense or not. I've humored him since the beginning and I will humor him until the end if that is what he wants. But he has to know what I'm willing to give if only he is willing to take it.

He hasn't cried or gotten angry or overly upset since this started. Maybe he did in private but he never has around me or anyone else as far as I know. It hurts me to think that he might have done all of his hurting by himself, alone, when I would have been more than willing to comfort him. I know what that feels like; since this started I have had to keep my feelings locked inside and only let them out in my alone moments. And all I really wanted was to do it with him and to have him comfort me. But that didn't seem at all fair when he was the one dying. Even if I could get him to comfort me (which seemed doubtful) that just would have seemed selfish.

I feel like he will be ready to face his own feelings; I think that's why he wanted to come home. There is a version of Sherlock that everyone sees and most of the time that's the one I see too. That Sherlock doesn't appear to have problems or worries or insecurities. But there is another Sherlock and I know I am the only one who sees that Sherlock. That is a Sherlock who has fears, who has doubts, who has insecurities. Though it isn't often I see glances of it.

When I get the tea ready I make my way into the living room and find him struggling to reach his shoes to take them off. His face contorts in pain as he reaches for but never quite reaches them. He still has his coat on and I realize that he must have been struggling this whole time I've been in the kitchen just to complete the small task of removing these two items.

He looks up at me as I enter the room and his face is a mask of failure. I know it's been his mission not to let me see how much help he needs. Since this all began he would not let me do anything for him. Now he has to ask me for help. There were so many times he asked me to do things for him, even when he was perfectly able just too lazy to do them. After all those times now, when it really counts, he refuses to ask.

I set the tea down in the table and I know better than to say anything as I reach down to take his shoes off. There is nothing but self-loathing on his face as he looks down at me. I move to sit behind him and remove his coat. I take it off as gently as I can but I hear him whimper in pain though I can't see his face. I know that the pain must be great because he never would have willingly let me hear that. "I'm sorry," I whisper out.

Even my touch hurts him. I have caused him so much pain. And he's done it for me. He wouldn't have held on this long if he hadn't been worried about me. "Thank you," I say to him.

"I never wanted to make you have to do anything like this," he says as an explanation like he owes me one. But the way he says it, it sounds like an apology, which he certainly doesn't owe me.

"You wouldn't have _made_ me do anything," I say. "You still aren't making me do anything."

I would have done anything in this world for him and he wouldn't have even had to ask, just allow me to do it. Maybe he doesn't understand because logically it doesn't make sense; the depths that we are willing to go for those we love.

I can't take not being able to something for him any longer so I reach up and take his dressing down off his shoulders and take my hands and gently rub his shoulders. He's taken so much pain for my benefit. I want to take away some of his even if it is only a little bit. He flinches slightly and I halt what I was doing. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. No…I was just surprised."

"Would you rather I not?"

"No…it's fine. It's…good."

I gently run my hands up and down his back and across his shoulders. He never would have let me comfort him like this while we were in the hospital where other people were around all the time. Because they're stupid and they make assumptions that aren't true even though it's none of their business. They really can't believe that he is my friend, my very best friend and that's why I'm so close to him. I feel sorry for them actually. It means that they have never had a friendship so real and full as the one I've had the privilege of sharing with Sherlock and that is truly sad.

I admit that what we have between us is rare. I've had plenty of mates before but nothing even close to what I have with Sherlock. Mates doesn't even seem like an adequate word for what he and I are. I feel like our friendship is one of those once in a lifetime relationships. It's something that I feel you only get once in life if you are lucky to experience it at all. Some people don't even get it once. I should feel lucky that I have and I do. But I am sad that it is going to be over.

As I rub his neck I feel him relax against me. If I'm honest I've longed for this myself. He has been so distant since I found out about his illness and I really just craved being closer with him. He hasn't talked about it, or acknowledged it or let me close enough to see any of it. I know he was doing it for my benefit; he didn't want me to have to suffer more than I had to. But it only made me feel that there was something between us, making things more awkward instead of less so.

I would get so lonely some days because I knew he was making me see the same façade he was putting up for everyone else. I didn't want to wallow in sorrow but I did want to talk about it. Some days I was so sad and I just wanted him to know how I was really feeling. By not being honest I felt like he didn't really know me. It was the time that I wanted more than ever to be closer with him and I feel we were further apart than we ever had been.

I put the dressing gown back on his shoulders but even then I just rest my head against his back for a few minuets not ready to be done. Time is passing in silence but we both know why we're here so I break the silence though I dread doing so. "Tell me what you're thinking," I ask quietly.

"I…I…" he starts but his voices cracks.

"It's alright," I say trying to encourage him to face the emotions I know he's running from. He lets out one small sob and I feel my heart break but he still holds back.

I move to kneel on the floor in front of him, to put my hands on his shoulders and look into his face. There is nothing but raw barely contained emotion in it. He has held his emotions in for so long that they have built up to an overwhelming level without any release. That alone would make it difficult and frightening. But it's even more so for a man who doesn't know his emotions well who does everything he can not to have them at all.

Though I thought the words would be difficult in coming the next ones find me with ease. "I know you're hurting and I want to help. I know that you're almost at the end and that's why you wanted to come home. It's just you and me here; no one else. You can be scared and upset; you know you're safe with me."

I am surprised at my own words. I say these things with certainty like I know that he knows them; I didn't realize that I myself knew them as facts. But maybe the only way for him to give up this act is for him to know that I already see through it. I know the real him so it makes no sense to keep this act up any longer.

His face twists in pain and I pull him to myself and he falls against me. He sobs and the sound wrenches at my heart. It's the kind of sobbing that only comes from deep loss. It's the sound of life, hopes and love lost. I know because I've heard it before. But from others; it was never my loss. I hold him tight and he clings back to me.

I always knew, this whole time, that he was hurting. Even though he was strong and unaffected on the outside I knew that inside was different story. Now all that was inside is coming out I realize that he is hurting is even greater than I realized. _I will be strong._ I repeat it over and over again inside my head. I don't really believe it but if I keep saying it maybe I will. Because I must

"I never thought it would be like this," he says in desperation as the tears are still coming.

"I didn't either" I admit.

"It isn't right. It isn't fair," frustration sounding in his cries.

"No it isn't."

"It's not even going to be a good death."

"Any death that claims you as a casualty can in no way be a good death."

"Surely you, a veteran, who fought on the fields of battle, who faced death on at least one occasion can understand that. The idea that it would be a good death no doubt made it possible for you to face it."

I let out a small laugh. He remembered. The first night we met and I pretty much told him as much. Of course he remembered. "Of course I can. You know I can. But you're a smart man and you can understand where I am coming from."

Sherlock takes in a small breath and lets it out. "Yes. Yes I do."

The cries stops but he still holds on and I feel no need to say anything. After a while he is the one to break the silence again.

"I'm sorry," I hear him say against my shoulder.

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Anyone in your situation would be upset."

"No…I mean I'm sorry for this."

For dying. That's what he's apologizing for. "Don't even apologize for that," I say firmly.

"I just…you deserved so much better than this. I wanted to give you more than this. But my stupid transport insists on failing me," he says his voice thick with the anger and frustration that I know must have been there for a long time but I have not yet heard.

My heart quivers inside of my chest. I will never make it; I will never survive this. I have lost mates, of course, I have. I made and lost friends on the battlefield but this feels so different that it doesn't even feel like the same animal. Those deaths were quick; no one saw them coming, there was little time to suffer or worry. Those deaths didn't feel meaningless or senseless or without honor. I didn't feel so powerless like I was doing nothing at all to stop them. But most of all I never cared for those friends with even close to the same amount that I feel for Sherlock.

"You are not the failure," I say my voice cracking out. "I am."

"That isn't true."

"Yes it is. I was always supposed to protect you. I promised from the beginning. I was supposed to save your life."

After a minutes pause he speaks again. "Have I ever told you how lucky I am?" he asks.

I laugh a little as I help him to lie gently back on the couch. "You? Lucky? How can that be?" What is he talking about? How could he possibly be lucky? Sherlock is a lot of things but lucky is not a word that I would have ever used to describe him. Especially not now.

"Yes, I never thought that I would be this lucky."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" If this is some kind of joke I don't find it funny.

"You really don't see it do you?"

"No, I really don't. Just like a million other times…I've missed it."

He smiles. "It's you."

That is not what I thought he was going to say. "What do you mean?"

"You've already saved my life so many times."

I struggle for a while for a while to know what to say. It's not something that he has ever really acknowledged. "Well…I couldn't just let you die."

"I'm not just talking about my physical safety."

I stare back at him.

"I admit, it's strange," he says. "That I should realize these things as I near the end of my life but I do. I guess I can blame the disease for riddling my mind with sentiment but I find myself fortunate in this moment. To have someone who actually cares about me. Who will actually notice my passing. "

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think. But I very much know what to feel. "Sherlock…I…"

"I did want it," he says it like a secret.

"What?"

"Friendship."

"You did?" I can't believe the words. Though it's clear that he has made friendships I can't imagine that it was ever something that he activity wanted or sought.

"I have a confession to make," he says with a bit of mischievous smile but I know that he only does it to cover up the embarrassment he feels.

"What?" I say with a smile.

"I didn't really need a flatmate."

I give him a puzzled look. "What?"

"I could have paid for the flat on my own. I didn't need help covering the rent."

"But you were looking for a flatmate?"

"Yes, I was. But it had nothing to do with money."

It's like I am looking back to our meeting and it seems completely different in the light of what he is telling me now.

"A few weeks before we met," he continues on, "I thought I was having a heart attack. I was in my flat all alone and I realized that if I were to die right then and there no one would know and it would probably take days for someone to notice. And even then there was probably no one that would care." He says this all while looking down but at this point he looks up at me with honest eyes, something I'm not ever sure I've seen on him.

"I was on a dangerous road. That first night we were together you saw. I played it off but I know that I didn't fool you. I would have taken that pill just to see what would have happened. I was bored and lonely and I didn't even care that my behavior was self destructive. Living and dying; I really didn't even care one way or the other what happened. But then you stepped in that night and you _did_ care. You saved my life and suddenly I did care about it again. Every day you have saved my life; saved me from myself.

"Anyway," he says taking a slightly shaky breath and continuing. "I realized that was not the way that I wanted things. I realized that I actually did…need someone. I actually did _want _someone. I never told you that and I wanted you to know."

He's sharing another part of himself with me. I might have known him better than anyone else but this was something I did not know. He's being honest with me and that is something I have always craved more of from him. I have wanted so much to know him better and now, he is letting me.

"Don't you see, John? The thing that I was so afraid of then…it's not happening now. I don't have to be alone. Someone does care. Only now in this time can I realize how lucky I have been."

Care. It's such an insufficient word for the way that I feel. I want to tell him how I really feel, that I do much more than care.

He reads my face like the page of a book like he always has. "What is it John?" he asks but I shake my head. He feels peace now, some measure of acceptance. I don't want to tell him that I feel the very opposite of hope. He has gotten what he sought but I am losing what I found. But this isn't about me.

Except that it is. This is almost over for Sherlock but it is just beginning for me. The painful journey of loss will not end when he dies. It will only increase in intensity for me.

"John," he insists.

My breath catches in my throat. I want to keep silent if only to keep him saying my name. Once he is gone I will never hear him call me by name again. That was something, a loss, that had not even occurred to me yet. But now I realize it and miss it already. This thought coupled with the fact that he is insisting on knowing what I am feeling is making it impossible for me to stay strong as I set out to do.

"Can I…" I start but a cry rising in my throat threatens to choke me. I'm breaking. I'm unraveling to pieces and I'm not sure that I can stop it.

"Can I …tell you that I love you?" I ask as I look down and cover my face with my hands. Despite the fact that he has been so honest with me I wonder if I have gone too far. I am surprised at my words. I'm not even sure if that is exactly what I set out to say. My mouth has skipped ahead to the very heart of the matter. I can't believe that I am even saying this. We've never talked like this but I know we're running out of time and I want to say it. But I only will if he is alright with me expressing such sentiment.

"I hoped you would."

I look at him and I am surprised. "Really?"

"I-"he says pauses before continuing with certainly. "I love _you_. So, I did hope that the feel was mutual."

The breaking is getting worse and worse. I always knew he felt that way about me. I knew it even though he never said it. But I guess if I'm really honest I would admit that sometimes I wondered if I cared about him more than he cared about me. I shouldn't have thought that just because I was more open about my feelings than he was. But I know there were times when I only wished he would just tell me and not keep everything locked up and away, especially those feelings that I felt should have belonged to me.

"I…I love you. I have for a long time. I'm not just saying it now," I add.

He smiles softly at me. "I know. Of course, I would be able to tell if your feelings weren't genuine and you were only saying them only for my benefit and impending death."

I laugh because he says it as a joke and because he sounds so normal, so like himself when he says it. But it's chocked with a sob so it comes out sounding like some terrible strange sound. He holds out his hand for me and I take it. He holds it more firmly than I would have expected and wraps his other one around it. I hang my head and let the hot tears run down my face. "I do love you. You're the best friend I have ever had and will ever have. And I don't want to miss you. I want to keep you here where I won't have to miss you as much as I'm going to have to."

I told myself that I wouldn't do this. I wouldn't be weak when he needs me to be strong. But I can't stop the sobs any longer. I lay my head down on the couch beside him and sob as I feel his hand on my head. I didn't want to do this. But there will many times that I will cry, I will sob for him and I will be alone. But now, I can have him comfort me and I realize that I want and desperately need that. I feel myself reaching for and grabbing at the opportunity.

After a long time, when my sobs have quieted he asks." Will you?"

"Will I what?" I ask.

"Miss me?"

"Of course I will. You really need to ask?"

"Maybe." He says his voice vulnerable.

He doesn't really need me to say it; he already knows it. But he _wants _me to say it. He wants to hear it. The strong front that I have been putting up is not helping him any more than the one he put up was helping me. Seeing that I am upset that he is leaving tells him that he is important to me. I never went about saying it this whole time he was sick because I knew that it would not be appreciated. I knew he didn't want me to get overly emotional about what was happening and so I held back from saying what I really wanted to.

But he knows that; he knows my silence is his doing. So, when I reply there is some of my usual spirit in my voice. "Well, if you didn't know that then you're an idiot."

He laughs. "I think we both know the untruthfulness in that statement."

"Maybe," I say with a nonchalant shrug.

"But like I said…lucky. That I do know. Because I never thought I would have someone that would truly miss me when I died."

"Sherlock."

"No, I mean it. I think we both know that most people would be relieved to be free of ever having to associate with me again."

"And I know that you know better than that. People might find you impossibly difficult to get along but that doesn't mean they want you gone forever. And there are some for whom that's the last thing that they want," I say looking down.

He looks at me. Reading me. He probably already knows what I am going to say.

"I have a confession to make too," I say.

"What's that?"

"I wasn't looking for a friend. I didn't even want a flatmate but I did need help with paying the rent."

"You act like this is news to me," he says with a smile.

I laugh a little. "I may have only been looking for someone to help me pay the bills, but I want you to know that I got so much more than that.

"It may not come as a surprise to you to hear me say this but I was in a really bad place when I met you," I look down at him and his face shows his unwavering attention on what I am saying. I smile as I so often do when I am talking about something uncomfortable as I am now doing with the story of who I use to be. "A really bad place."

"I know you know most of it already, you told me as much the first time we met," I say with a laugh. "But I don't think you know all about it.

"I had only been back to London for a few weeks before I met you. The night I got back I got to the airport and there was no one there for me. No family or friends really to be happy or care at all that I was back. I didn't even have a home to go to. So, I just made my way to this terrible little hotel. I had no plans for the future; no idea who I was or where I belonged. And sitting there I felt so alone and I thought that it really didn't matter to anyone, myself included, that I had survived at all."

I stop for a moment not wanting to cry with the painful memories before I can clearly say the next part. "I was looking for a flat just so I could try and find my way around this life. I wasn't looking for a friend. And I never expected that I would find my home."

Tears are running silently down my face now. "So you see, now I know…that thing that I was afraid of…I can only now see that it didn't happen. That night, that first lonely night in my hotel room, I feared the most that my survival didn't matter at all. I thought that maybe it didn't matter that I survived, that the world would have been the same whether I had lived or died. But it did matter."

It is a while before Sherlock speaks and when he does it's like he reads my mind. He seems to know the very fears I have in the moment and the fears I have for the future.

"You're strong John."

"No, I'm not." I've never done this before. I don't know if I can do this, this terrible thing that is required of me. How can I be brave when I feel like such a coward? I have felt nothing but terror since I knew that this day was coming.

"Of course you are," he says with the same tone of voice that he uses when he says "You're an idiot."

"I don't feel strong," I admit.

"But you are even if you don't feel like it. And you seem to thrive in some of the worse situations. Always remember that."

I cover my eyes with my hand. I know what he's saying. He's telling me that I can be strong, that I can be brave. _After_.

"I'm strong sometimes. I'm brave in the face of some things. Not others." All I can think about is a man who withered up and almost died in the loss and in the boredom. I think of that man now and I hate him. I never ever want to be him again.

"You'll never be that man again. You can't go back to being him."

How does he do that? How does he always seem to know what I'm thinking? "Sometimes we can't help what we become." I wish his words were true. I don't want to be that man again.

"Are you an alcoholic?"

"No," I say puzzled. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"That was a choice you made. That was something you could have become, in fact _should_ have become in some people's books. But you chose not to become that."

"Yeah. I suppose so." I say it kind of brushing off the seriousness of it. It's something that I have not thought about in a long time, due mostly to him. And it's not something that I want to think about now. I am losing my best friend right now and that's all I can think about.

But he won't let me skirt past it. "It would have been easy to do but you didn't. Even though your father was. Even though your sister is. Even though half of your family succumbed, you did not. Even though it's a demon you carry around and fight inside. You were brave enough not to fear it and strong enough to fight it."

I look at him surprised. I shouldn't be surprised he knows that much, that he knows me so completely but I am. It still surprises me that he can know things that I have never told him before.

He smiles at the look of surprise on my face. A look that he has seen so many times, a look he likes to see even though he pretends it doesn't affect him that much. "You could have turned to it back then but you didn't. I always admired you for that. I never told you."

It means a lot to hear him say that. To know that he believes that I am strong like that is something that I will be able to hold onto for a long time.

"I've never been stronger than when I'm with you."

Silence falls in between us. We're both lost in it for a few moments until I hear Sherlock take a breath that shakes all the way out. When I look up to meet his eyes they are filled with unconcealed terror. He lets me see the fear that he is feeling.

I know that feeling. I have looked death in the face and I know that it is terrifying. You can think you are prepared for it, you can think that you are completely ready and accepting of it. But then you see it, you feel its imminence, and nothing can prepare you for that. I see that look and I know exactly what it feels like.

"What can I do?" I say desperately and breathless as I realize that he is he terrified.

"Come closer."

"I don't want to hurt you," I say hesitating.

"You won't. Just…I just need you to hold me."

I rush forward and wrap by arm around him pulling him close to myself. He folds in and I hold him as tightly as is comfortable for him against me. I rest my forehead against his and we sit there in silence. There are no words needed or wanted now. I only listen to every breath of his cherishing each and every one and alternating mine with his in this close space.

Maybe I can be brave. Maybe I can be strong. Right now I feel it rising up inside of me. It presses back on the breaking and bleeding inside of me and stops it if only momentarily. I feel a resolve and determination inside of myself that I always hoped I would have when this time came but always feared I would not. I never knew if I could be this until this moment came but now I feel stronger than I ever have and much more than I ever dreamed I could be.

And the reason is this man I hold in my arms. He has always brought out the very best in me. I may have always been the things he says I am but it wasn't until I was in his shadow that I saw them. I never did see them until I was in his presence and being around him made me want to be those things even more. Some may say that it was the lack of his good qualities that made mine stand out so much more; I say it's the very opposite. Only someone greater than yourself can bring out the best in you. You do not feel the need to strive for greater heights around mediocre people; it is only around outstanding people that you feel you can be magnificent. And only this brilliant man helped me to see everything around me and in me that I was taking for granted. I admit his methods are strange but they are effective.

He has held on for me. He has been strong for me, he's done things he's not wanted to do because he knew it's what I wanted. I know if it had been up to him then he would not have made himself last this long. He only did it because he knew I wanted him to. It's his willingness to do this that now gives me the strength to not make him do it anymore. He has loved me by holding on; I can now love him by letting him go.

So I now pull strength from every part and depth of me and make myself do it. He is relaxing against me, fighting sleep. I pull back slightly and place my hand on his eyes and close them. "It's alright to sleep now. You won't be alone." I run one of my hands through his hair memorizing the way his curls feel around my fingers and add "You've done well."

He opens his eyes to look at me one time more. He smiles and motions for me to move closer. I lean my face closer down to his and he kisses me lightly on the cheek. Maybe it should hurt; maybe it will hurt. But right now it only feels good, full of the admiration and devotion he feels for me. "Keep up the good work. And thank you. For everything."

"I was only returning the favor."

"The scales were always uneven with us."

"Yes, but on whose side?"

He smiles, the real and true smile that I love. "I suppose that's one mystery we don't have to solve."

I smile because we've both gotten something. In drastically different ways maybe and maybe even to different degrees but that doesn't matter. Because in each other we've both found exactly what we needed and it was precisely enough. "Thank you, my friend."

I have thought a lot about what the last thing I would say to Sherlock would be. As I thought about it I could never seem to find the right words, words that would be enough for all he means to me. But now that I am here, and he smiles and closes his eyes, I find that these, my last words to him, are exactly the right ones. A thank you, heartfelt and genuine says it all.

Have I ever told you how lucky I am? I am because I knew a man named Sherlock Holmes, a man who helped me to see the good in myself and life. A man whose friendship will only make me better even long after he's gone. I may not have realized it fully until it was being taken from me but it's not something I will ever forget. And because of him I will not die inside. I will not stop living. I will not give up.


End file.
